


Seven Times The Hargreeves Siblings Lost Their Virginity (and one time someone else did)

by listlessness



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Awkward Sexual Situations, Drug Sex, Drunk Sex, F/F, F/M, First Time, M/M, Masturbation, Other, Underage Drinking, delores-with-an-e, for plot reasons, parts could be read as dubcon, the beastie comes out to play, the rest are with original characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-28 03:52:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19804156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/listlessness/pseuds/listlessness
Summary: Navigating relationships is hard at the best of times, but when one's education has been limited to defusing bombs and learning the safe dosages of poisons, it's even more difficult.OrHow the Hargreeves siblings really learnt what it meant to be truly fucked by the world.





	1. OR: in which a tool has a new purpose

**Author's Note:**

> This was all a bit of fun. Some parts could be dubconny, but nothing was written (or intended to be read) as noncon. That's not my jazz.

Everything felt like it had been put on a forty-five degree angle. Luther could feel his body canting to the side, his head and arm heavy as a fresh wave of heat rolled over him. For a minute, he could swear he was back on the moon. The sun was cresting over the horizon, and it was casting long shadows over the surface of the crater he was stationed in, and if he stood at just the right angle he'd be able to see Earth just past the bright, burning light. 

Someone tugged on his left arm. 

He wasn't on the moon. He was in his bed, and he was about to tip right on out. Another wave rolled over him, and this one wasn't made of intoxicating heat, but of laughter and delight. It washed over him, spilling giggles from his mouth and causing the fur on his arms to stand on end. Tingles ran over his skin, thick and leathery and dark, and not like the soft pink he had grown accustomed to for two decades. 

The someone was a girl. Woman. Somebody with breasts and lipstick and smiles, and someone who didn't shy or shudder away when his big hand clasped around her delicate shoulder and pulled her in close. 

Luther liked touching. He'd never been as tactile as Klaus, with his limited understanding of personal boundaries or any concept of personal space. But so many years on the moon and a body that wasn't his own in any recognisable way had left him hungry and craving some kind of human connection. He ached for his old body and the familiarity of his own muscles. A framework built up of tendons and ligaments and sinew all of his own. 

Sinew. Good word. Not used nearly often enough. Sinew. 

Sinew. 

Sinew. 

Sin. Ew. 

Sin. _You_. 

Sin-you sin-you sin-you _sinyousinyousinyou_ \- 

Another rush of laughter. Luther let it come and he teetered over again, his arm falling over the side of the bed and smacking on the ground. He could feel the hollow space under the floorboards, the dirt from his boots, the thick material of his coat. He couldn't remember taking it off. He couldn't even remember putting it on. Maybe, maybe, maybe- 

'What's so funny?' 

Maybe he'd _stolen_ it. That was a Number Four type thing, and _oh_ , he'd suddenly longed to be down the list like good ol' Number Four. He'd gone and taken Number Four's place. Stealing it. Yes, maybe he'd stealing- _stolen_ \- it. _Ssstealing_ it with his _sssinyou_. 

' _Sss_ \- ' 

' _Sss_?' 

' _Sss_!' 

He laughed again. He laughed and hissed at her. What was her name? Cathy. Cassie. Ca _sss_ ie? 

Cathy-with-an-S hissed at him. 

He hissed. 

She kissed him. Kissed him and hissed at him and her hands were everywhere. 

Kissing was good. Luther hadn't even realised how much he'd missed kissing. Not that he'd had a lot of experience, pre-or-post _sinyou_ loss, but he'd had a modicum of experience. More than people expected. Less than he'd have liked to have. And, now, he was doing it again. 

Cathy-with-an-S was light and she sat neatly on his lap. He could pick her up, hold her, laugh as she pulled at his fur and ran her fingers over his muscles and explored the breadth of his shoulders. Her fingers scratched and tugged, and Luther allowed her, drinking in every offering. 

The room kept tilting. Luther let his head loll from side to side, his eyes rolling back as he felt himself drift off to the moon again. She was asking questions, talking, pressing and giggling, and Luther tried, _tried_ , to get his thick tongue to work. Articulation was a problem. It had always been a problem. Words weren't his forte. They were Allison's. Allison's... and maybe Vanya's. She'd written the book, hadn't she? Exposed them, exposed all of them, and Luther had wanted to be angry, maybe he had been angry, but everything had fallen apart when he'd had the accident and- 

And she'd _stolen_ it. Stolen their life. Their history. Made it a spectacle, and... and she'd exposed them. Exposed them like his body. His... his all of it. 

He reached around. Groped. Vanya's book was somewhere. He wanted to show Cathy-with-an-S. It was there, on his bedside table somewhere, near his glass of water and his hairbrush and his trophy for saving some city from some exploit, and he didn't really want it but he had hung a bunch of _things_ from it that might have been important at some point. 

His hand clasped around something. His tendons contracted. His ligaments were strong. Everything was held in place. 

' _Sinyou_.' 

'Sinyou?' 

' _Sss_.' 

'You want...?' And then, maybe thirty seconds, maybe thirty minutes, 'are you sure?' 

Luther was always sure. He was Number One. He had to be sure. 

And he nodded. Cathy-with-an-S laughed. She wasn't laughing at him. She was laughing because it was fun and she wanted him, and how wonderful it was that someone wanted him. She called him _sssexy_ and she called him _sssweet_ and she called him _sssomething elssse_ , but Luther's memory got a little bit hazy there. 

Sex was messy. It was dizzying and confounding as he found the bed rushing up to meet him. He crashed upon it and laughed, loud and bellowing, as the mattress swallowed him whole. There was no oxygen on the moon, and he found himself greedily sucking in all the air he could, as his giddy mind reeled and hissed around him. 

Everything was slick. He wanted to offer Cathy-with-an-S a hand, but something about that idea had him laughing again. She was in his face, and there was a pillow somewhere underneath him that he wanted to pull out. That set him off again, as he knocked something plastic and slippery off the bed that he may have purchased before he'd left for the moon. 

'I've been to the _moon_.' 

'Yeah, I bet you have, big boy.' 

It was difficult to think after that. All Luther could do was breathe. In, out, in, out, his tendons and ligaments and _sinyou_ working with him. Cathy-with-an-S was guiding him, a laugh on her breath as he followed her gentle instructions. 

In. Out. In. Out. 

Simple. 

But _boy_ , was sex weird. It was a lot more complicated than he'd expected and he didn't know how to move his body, and Luther found himself baffled by the way his body felt. Muscles burned and sweat dripped and a part of him that knew he wasn't on the moon and that he was safe from the vacuum of space told him that something wasn't going according to plan, but he pushed it all aside. 

There was a hand on the small of his back and a whisper in his ear, and Luther _ached_ for it all. He groaned and felt his spine ripple and let the heat of it all wash over him. Yes, heat. Heat. He had craved it on the moon. Not just _heat_ but a human kind of heat. The kind he could feel now, as he canted back and squirmed and took all that was on offer. 

Sex. Human contact. Cathy-with-an-S. _Sssex_. 

And yeah, maybe there was some mild discomfort after, but his whole body had been aching a little since his return to Earth. He was heavy now. Slow. Going for a walk down the street required a greater amount of effort than what he'd been used to. And okay, maybe he was brand new to the whole drug taking thing, too, but dammit, he'd earned a break. 

It wasn't until light spilled out across the room and Luther staggered back to his bed the following morning, his head filled with marshmallows and the dawning realisation that gravity was still a thing and the damn chiming of that _bell_ that he understood _how_ sore he was. 

Now just how, but where. 

A tube of lube was crushed underfoot and his toes squelched into the slick mess. The towel had something wet on it. Pain burned as he sat down. 

Her name wasn't Cathy _or_ Cassie but Caris. 

There was a hairbrush on the ground, half a foot away from the bottle of lube. He was pretty sure it hadn't been there the night before. It had been on the bedside table. A condom was hanging off the handle. Luther was _definitely_ sure it hadn't been like that the night before. He wasn't even sure he owned condoms, which meant Cathy-with-an-R had been the one to bring them. 

With a grunt, Luther sagged forward and covered his face with his large hands. Another streak of pain shot up his middle, but it was easy enough to ignore. The lube was going to take forever to get out of his fur. 


	2. OR: in which a job is lost

Moving out of home had been easy. 

_Staying_ out of home was the tricky part. 

One job at a fast food restaurant soon required a second. Bagging groceries was mind-numbing, but it made ends meet. Soon enough, Diego got a few boxing matches under his belt. The influx of cash was great but limited. 

Odd jobs filled in the gaps between paychecks. Diego knew how to replace tap washers, he could patch a dry wall, and he didn't mind mowing the lawn. He was even learning how to grout in his spare time, as limited as it was. 

The apartment he lived in was rundown, cheap, and the landlord looked away from Diego's clearly forged ID. He was still working on getting his name legally changed from _Number Two_ (no surname) to the one gifted to him by his mother. He was seventeen, though, and getting legally emancipated from an eccentric billionaire was a lot more difficult than he'd anticipated. Even so, he had a roof over his head (that occasionally leaked), a bed to sleep on (a double! Not the awkward single he had begun to outgrow at twelve), and a microwave that he had yet to figure out how to program the time into. 

His neighbours were a peculiar bunch of people. Across from him was an elderly woman who Diego personally delivered groceries for five bucks a week. Two doors down was a single mother, and Diego would watch her kids on Tuesday nights for ten bucks an hour, plus a hot meal. He couldn't stand the kids, but he loved the food, and if he portioned it right, it often made lunch the following day. 

On Mondays, Thursdays, and the Sundays he was free, he was repainting the kitchen next door. Mister Ferguson, his neighbour, seemed capable enough to do it himself, but he apparently had a daughter similar in age to Diego and he knew the difficulties of saving for college through her. Diego didn't correct his assumption about his age, and he took the cash with a smile. 

College was the furthest thing from Diego's mind. He could only see until the end of the week, and while it was difficult, it was better than the hell he'd come from. He was saving up for a new apartment- or, at least, a fan or portable air conditioner. Spring was hot, and summer was going to be a scorcher. His little cinderblock was going to become a furnace. The only reprieve were his odd jobs in other apartments that had better cooling, including Mister Ferguson's. 

It was at the start of spring break that his daughter came home. Mister Ferguson was apologetic, but explained she was studying for her exams and wouldn't cause trouble. Diego believed him. 

He shouldn't have. 

'They _totally_ ditched me,' she lamented as she draped herself over the kitchen counter as Diego ran the masking tape along the skirting. 'Can you believe that? We could all be going to Miami together, and they all totally flaked!' 

'What a bummer,' Diego provided a little haplessly. 

Ashley was nineteen. She was two and a half years older than him, if his math checked out. She was either in her second or third year of college (he hadn't asked), and was a little less of an attentive student than her father made her out to be. She had yet to crack open a textbook in Diego's presence, and so far the only thing she had learned was the latest relationships on _Days of Our Lives_. Diego, unfortunately, had as well. 

'I should've been like you. Save up for college. Then I might have some less shit friends.' 

'Ha. Maybe.' 

She had decided, like her father, they were the same age. Diego was loathe to correct her. He'd always been told he looked older than he was. Puberty had hit him hard at twelve, when his first moustache had begun to grow in and he'd discovered hair in strange places long before his brothers. 

'D'you know what you're going to study?' 

Diego stole a moment by ripping off the masking tape and hopping down from the ladder. He thought quickly, and pulled two words out of the air. 

'Sports science.' 

Ashley wrinkled her nose. 'Like sports psychology?' 

'Uh, yeah. Just like that.' 

'Because we did that in my Psych 101 class last year, and it's, like, PR and client management stuff.' 

'Yeah. Sounds fun.' 

Okay, so maybe Diego didn't find her personality the most thrilling, but her dad was paying him a hundred bucks a week to do the kitchen, and if it meant Ashley kept draping herself over the kitchen counter while he was up on the ladder and he caught a look down her shirt, Diego wasn't going to complain. He didn't need conversation to look at a pair of tits. 

Spring break had coincided with several of his shifts at the burger place and grocery store to be cut. After griping to both bosses about the docked pay, Diego offered to spend as much of the week painting the kitchen as possible. Just out of the goodness of his heart, honest. And Ashley wasn't a problem at all, he barely noticed she was in the apartment. 

Diego didn't know the first thing about flirting, but he definitely knew when he was being flirted with, and Ashley _was_ flirting with him. A part of Diego's mind kept telling him that she was probably just bored, morose, and he was an easy target, but that little nagging tone was easy to ignore. His moustache was finally filling out a little, and he was hitting the gym a little more often for his boxing matches, so he was packing on some muscle. His jeans might have been purchased from a thrift store, but they fit well, and she probably didn't know any different. 

Diego felt _good_. 

By the end of the second day, she was laughing and touching his arm. She'd lean in close and throw her head back as she laughed, and Diego awkwardly held the paint roller out, over the newspaper so it didn't drip on Mister Ferguson's linoleum flooring. 

On the third day, she wore shorts that were perhaps a touch higher cut than strictly necessary for spring, but Diego wasn't about to suggest she put on something else. She kept crossing her legs and it was _distracting_ , in the way newspapers suggested that girls and their shoulders could very well be. Diego suddenly hated the mass media for being so damn right about it. 

'When do you go back?' he asked as he filled the tray with more cream paint. 

'College starts again Monday, but my classes don't start 'til Tuesday,' she said as she draped herself over the couch. Her feet were resting on the back and her ankles were crossed. 

It was rude to stare. Diego was sure his mother would be pulling him by the ear if she were here. 

He wasn't completely inexperienced. His first few weeks out of the Academy had been a blur of new experiences including, but not limited to, cashing his paychecks for beer, making out with girls, and copping an over-the-shirt feel. He wasn't a complete idiot. Just half an idiot, and that was a hell of a lot more than Luther. 

He got his chance the following afternoon. She tasted of cherry lipgloss (gross) and stale biscotti (somehow even worse), but he had a hand up her shirt, and Diego wasn't going to let something she'd eaten get in the way of a good time. The paint was drying and Diego didn't want to sand down the next section just yet anyway, so yeah, this was a _lot_ more fun than watching paint literally dry. It was also a damn load better than another episode of _Days of Our Lives_. 

'Here, let me help you with that- ' 

So getting a hand down the front of his jeans was perhaps a little unexpected, but Diego wasn't going to fight it. Ashley thought he was nineteen. Not some seventeen-year-old kid that should be in high school, getting ready for his final exams or whatever. Nineteen-year-olds had sex. At least he thought they did. He wasn't going to back out now. 

But still. 

'Shouldn't I- I need, like, a rubber- ' 

'It's fine, I'm on the Pill.' 

'No, I really think... I mean, my ex-girlfriend had a scare,' he lied quickly as Ashley rolled her eyes. 

' _Fine_ , follow me. I'm sure my dad has some.' 

The bathroom wasn't exactly where he expected all of this happen. He didn't have any grand ideals about his first time, but a warm spring afternoon in a tiled room with minimal ventilation wasn't exactly topping the list. But Ashley was bent over and her shorts were down around her knees and Diego was fumbling with tearing the condom wrapper. But hell, it was happening, and it was _going_ to happen, and Diego couldn't bring himself to care about the circumstances as to how and when and why. 

The wrapper fell to the tiles and his hands dropped to her hips and everything went a little murky at the corners of his visions. 

_Hot_. So hot. Not just the bathroom and its lack of ventilation and tiny window that somehow channelled the sunlight to point directly off the mirror, but also _her_. 

Klaus had once described sex as not exactly throwing a hot dog down a corridor, and damn if he wasn't right. Hot and _tight_. 

He had no concept of rhythm or finesse. He wanted to snake a hand up the front of her blouse, or maybe ask if they could escape to a room with a fan, but he couldn't figure out how to talk. His eyes were locked onto the back of her head, a little afraid to look down any further to where she was bouncing off him. It was noisy, a wet smacking sound filling the tiny room, and Diego half-heartedly wished he had had more time to prepare. 

He also knew he ought to be doing something with his hands. He'd read magazines. He'd watched videos. But in the heat of the moment, he found himself just grabbing her hips and squeezing his eyes shut and letting it all happen. 

Maybe if he'd been paying more attention, he'd have had more warning. As it was, all he had was a loud bellowing in his ear and he found himself stumbling backwards in shock. 

His jeans were around his ankles. It was difficult to run. 

The shock of Mister Ferguson standing in the doorway had Diego's orgasm hitting him like a sucker punch low in the gut. 

Maybe it was rude to shove Ashley into the bathroom sink, but instincts were hard to shake. 

'What the _fuck_ \- ' 

'Shit- ' 

'Dad!' 

Diego couldn't get his jeans up. They kept catching and tugging (his belt was under his foot, and Diego didn't realise in his panic), and he barely had a thought beyond getting out of there. The condom fell off and landed with a splatter, and before he knew it, Ashley had slipped on it and was scrambling to stay upright. Mister Ferguson was yelling, and Diego finally had his jeans up, but his cock was still hard. 

_Out_. 

Barrelling into Mister Ferguson, Diego smacked the corridor wall as he scurried out. Grabbing his keys from the counter, his foot hit the tray of paint as he raced to the front door. There was still yelling behind him as he left, his shoe leaving white tread marks as he ran out the door and to his apartment. 

He finally caved and called Mom the next morning about getting some cash for a new place to stay. 


	3. OR: in which a set of elbows are rubbed

The party was in full swing. The bass of the music was thumping and the Black Eyed Peas were blasting from the speakers. Smoke was wafting overhead, and Allison was pretty sure the venue didn't allow cigarettes to be lit up indoors, but she wasn't about to say anything. She was _cool_ , she was _popular_ , and sure, she could just manipulate her way back to the top, but _cool_ and _popular_ girls didn't tattle. 

Someone had handed her a Mike's Hard. She'd already been given one earlier, but that felt like eons ago. Reginald had had all of them taste alcohol in the past, only so they could know if their drinks had been spiked. Then again, he'd also deliberately given them all food poisoning and forced them to treat themselves. 

Sipping the drink, trying to avoid screwing her nose up, Allison looked out over the club. The can was cold in her hand, and some of it had already been spilled over the front of her dress. The lavender cotton had darkened, but she could barely see it in the strobe lights. Wiping at it, Allison shouldered her handbag and squinted as she tried to find the exit. 

Allison had never planned to be the first to leave the Academy. But Hollywood had come calling, and anything had to be better than staying in the Academy once Five had gone. If she'd learnt anything, though, it was that freedom always came with a caveat. In some ways, being under Reginald's thumb had granted her certain liberties that Hollywood didn't. She had an _image_ now. A carefully curated identity, that was almost as restrictive as Number Three. She'd traded a domino mask for highlights and glitter, and being one of the most marketable child stars at fifteen was almost as suffocating as the old leather catsuits. 

Downing the last of the can, a hand shaking the blouse of her dress to air it out, Allison found the room beginning to teeter. It was fun. _Funny_. The smoke above was hot and smelled musty and she sneezed. 

After parties could be as dull as award ceremonies. She hadn't been nominated for anything. Her agent had just made her go to keep her face out there and relevant. She was stuck in a record contract, but Allison wanted to act. _Seriously_ act, not the stupid Disney Channel cameos that she kept being offered. 

A waitress was carrying a tray of glasses. Waving them over, Allison took one. There was a beat, a moment, where the waitress eyed her cautiously. Before Allison could so much as utter a word, the waitress had moved on and she was left holding a glass of champagne. 

She wasn't the youngest person here. She was pretty sure she'd seen the kid from that Nickelodeon show cutting a line in the bathroom, and she was only thirteen. 

Making her way through the crowd, laughing and waving, she spotted the exit. The lights were bright, the Black Eyed Peas had given way to Kelly Clarkson, and Allison needed to get _out_ before her own damn song came on. 

Her 'excuse me's gave way to 'move!' and even a grumbled 'I heard a rumor- ', and she found herself drinking in the sweet air of the hotel corridor. 

Her room was two floors down from the penthouse. The past few hotel stays, she had rumored herself to get an entire suite to herself, but there was a strange loneliness to it. She was accustomed to hearing noise outside her door. In her childhood bedroom, all she had to do was press her ear to the wall, and she'd hear Luther's radio playing, Klaus talking to himself, a few bars of Vanya's violin. Their rooms didn't need to be close, but the walls were hollow and sounds echoed. 

The penthouse and the accompanying suites were fantastic, but they were big. Too big. She still had a grand room, for sure, but she could hear room service in the early morning. 

'Oh my God.' 

The champagne glass had gone. Allison looked at her hand. Had she finished it? 

'Oh my _God_.' 

That wasn't her voice. 

The brights were light. No, the _lights_ were _bright_. And it sure as hell seemed like the hotel had fragranced the corridor, too. Reginald had told her sometimes fancy establishments did that, especially if there was a chance for unpleasant odours. 

Clubs were rife with that. Stale beer, BO, vomit. 

Looking back over her shoulder, Allison rubbed the back of her hands over her eyebrows. As she did, she felt a tap on her shoulder. 

Right, the voice. 

'Oh my God, oh my God.' 

A girl was standing in front of her. She looked like Allison's age. A little taller, a little less groomed (which wasn't all that surprising, given Allison had been sat in a make up chair for a good three hours that afternoon. Somehow her make up had stuck, despite the humidity of the summer awards ceremony). She wore thick, square glasses, and Allison could see a faint glimmer of braces with thick, pink elastics at the corners of her mouth. She'd always been fascinated by braces and had longed for a pair. Curses for her enviably straight, perfect teeth. 

'You're Allison Hargreeves.' 

'Huh,' she grunted. 

Sobriety. She had to be sober. No crashing and burning. 

'Yup,' she attempted again. 

There. See, she was still a picture of child star perfection. 

'Oh my God.' 

'You, uh. You staying here?' Allison asked as she rubbed a thumb under her eye. 

The champagne had been the thing to set her over the edge. The room was spinning, and the patterned wallpaper was making it worse. Attempting for subtlety, Allison let her eyes drop to the watch on her wrist. It was just past midnight. Or was it one? Five had always said time was a construct, in one of his faux-deep moments. 

'Oh. Oh, yeah. My folks are at the casino, so I snuck out. I heard there was a party on and I was hoping to see- ' 

She wouldn't have been able to get in if she tried. The glittery jeans were a year out of fashion, her t-shirt was from a chain outlet, and Allison couldn't remember the last time she'd seen someone wear Converse with ladybugs on them. 

The glittery lipgloss was cute, though. Her agent didn't want her wearing any (matte shimmer was the look for the summer), but Allison still carried a secret tube. 

'It's not fun,' Allison said, cutting her off. Uttering the truth was a relief. 'It's... noisy. Loud. Hey, d'you wanna check out my room? There's a totally awesome view of the city.' 

The girl's eyes looked like they were going to bug out of her. Laughing, Allison swayed a little and gave her shoulder a pat. She tried to make it seem casual, but the room was toppling again, and Allison needed something to lean against. 

She wasn't drunk. Just tipsy. Pleasantly buzzed. This wasn't the Emmy's from earlier in the year, when she definitely gotten drunk and had needed to lay down in the bathroom for a good while. 

'What's your name?' she asked. She hadn't heard the girl reply to her question, but she wasn't being pushed away. 

'Olivia,' she replied quickly. 'I- I'm a _huge_ fan. I... I run the San Diego chapter of your fan club. Is that weird? Oh, I just... I love your new album. The second song, Peaches and Cream, is my _fave_ \- ' 

'My brother's name is Diego,' Allison murmured to herself, as Olivia's voice rolled over her. 

She was still talking. Allison was trying to listen, but she couldn't remember what direction the elevator was in. Humming, feeling her voice roll about in her throat, she turned left and right. Right was more difficult. Right sent the room tipping over, and she wound up leaning further into Olivia. 

They were in front of the elevator. Good, she didn't need to bother leaning into it. 

'I'm on... here, here's my keycard,' Allison slurred, digging the card out of her handbag and pressing it into Olivia's hand. 'I'm on the sixteenth floor.' 

'Oh, _wow_ , that's fancy. We're only on the third floor. We're here for my dad's work. He's, like, an engineer or something, I think? Do you get to do stuff like this often? Parties, and stuff?' 

'Yeah, sorta. It's not always fun, though.' 

'Are you working on a new album? Oh, _wow_ , look out the window, you can see all the people down there.' 

'Uh...' 

Shutting her eyes, Allison rested against the glass wall as Olivia babbled on. She was working on a new album, inasmuch as people were writing the songs and recording the stems. All she had to do was go in and belt out a few vocals that meant nothing to her. Peaches and Cream, the song Olivia liked so much, had twenty-two writing credits. Allison's name was third, only because it had to be somewhere, and she'd swapped a few words and lines to legitimise the credit. 

The elevator chimed. Allison led Olivia off. 

'What kind of engineer is he?' 

'Huh?' 

'Your dad. What kind of engineering does he do?' 

'Oh. I dunno. You probably don't care, it's boring!' 

Olivia laughed. Allison furrowed her brow. Maybe it was boring, but she was craving boring. She was craving something normal and mundane. She had fame, she had money, she had a fan club for Christ's sake, but she wanted something painfully boring. Something _real_. 

There was a click as Olivia scanned her key card and the door opened. The air conditioner was already on, the bed had been turned down, and someone (likely her manager) had left some easy listening jazz playing. Allison had said she enjoyed it just to seem older and more mature, and she was regretted it ever since. 

Olivia was going on her ' _oh my God_ ' and ' _oh wow_ ' tangent again, and Allison let her drift away to gaze out the window. Flopping down on the bed, she peeled her shoes off, hissing in relief as they were freed of their high heeled confines. Fumbling with her hair, she pulled the hair tie out, sighing as her curls tumbled down her back. 

The world was still spinning when she shut her eyes, but it was easier to handle. Wasn't that some John Lennon quote? Some Beatles song? She really should know, but she just didn't _care_. Allison had wanted to seem cool and mature, and she wanted to be older than she was, but she also wanted _boring_. _Simple_. She wanted her parents to drag her to some business trip where she could get her thrills by sneaking out of the room and trying to get into a Hollywood party. 

The bed sunk down beside her. Olivia was waving her hands as she talked, so plain and geeky and with the braces Allison had wanted when she was eleven. 

She kissed her. She could feel the spiky press of braces against her lips, and Olivia's glasses her pressed against her eyebrows, and Allison was fairly sure she didn't like girls like _that_ , but maybe if she kissed Olivia hard enough, some of her plainness and boringness would rub off on her. 

'Oh! Oh, wow. That's... oh, wow!' 

Allison tried not to wince. Olivia hadn't moved, but she was still babbling. Rolling her eyes, she cupped the side of her face and kissed her again. She could still taste the champagne and lemonade, and her hair smelled of smoke, and her bra was digging in at the sides. Her agent had told her she needed to lose a few pounds and her manager had said they needed to dye her hair so she appealed to a wider audience, and they were booking her in for poise classes so she didn't slouch when she walked. 

Allison had heard a rumor that she had better agents. 

Allison had heard a rumor that she got the lead on that new movie. 

Allison had heard a rumor that she was talented. 

Allison had heard a rumor that she hadn't said anything like that yet, but she _could_. 

The room was spinning. They were on the bed and she was grabbing at Olivia, half-wishing she could put on her cheap, shitty clothes and escape to a life of cold cereal and high school in San Diego. 

Olivia's bra was simple and made of cotton. It was the kind of thing Allison might see in a Sears catalogue. Her t-shirt was off, and Allison was stunned to find the top of her dress had also been pulled down to pool around her waist as well. She needed to go lay down. She was dizzy. Good thing she was on a bed. 

There were a pair of black glasses beside her. Grabbing them, Allison put them on. The room was a blur, but strangely it helped the dizziness. 

'Are you okay?' Olivia asked with a laugh. 

'I... I'm...' 

She was fine. She was great. She was loved and she was popular and she was out of the Academy. Why wouldn't she be fine, with fame and celebrity and her own damn fan club? 

'I... heard a rumor- ' 

And Olivia was laughing. And Allison was laughing back. And she was _fine_ , just _fine_ , as she teetered backwards and crawled on top of Olivia. 

Later, when the sun was up and she had her legs dangling over the side of the tub and her manager was talking about the day's schedule in the next room, Allison would try to avoid analysing the events of the night before. Olivia had left dishevelled but dressed. Allison could smell her on her fingers, and her thighs had been sticky with glittery lipgloss. 

She hadn't been drunk. She was sure of that. But her memory was patchy, and try as she might, she couldn't remember if she had finished her sentence. 

Her manager knocked on the door. With a gasp, Allison sank down under the tub and let the water cover her ears. 


	4. OR: in which miley is a mitigating factor

It was that damn Miley Cyrus song. Klaus couldn't get it out of his head. 

Grabbing the pillow, he flipped it over so the cold side was pressed against his cheek and rolled onto his stomach. Shutting his eyes, he gave a huff and hauled the blanket up to his chin. 

Somewhere, in the next room, the tap dripped. 

'I hopped off the plane at LAX- ' 

Beside him, Ben sat bolt upright and took a sharp breath in through his nose. It always wigged Klaus out. The dead weren't meant to breathe. 

' _Please_. Please. I'm begging you. For once- just- valerian. You've got valerian, right?' 

Klaus pushed himself up to face him. It was a bit difficult, with the blinds drawn and curtains closed, but some of the muddy yellow light from the streetlamp across the road still filtered through. 

'You're meant to be helping me in my sobriety!' 

'Valerian isn't a drug, man,' Ben shot back. 'It's a- it's a root. A plant.' 

'So's weed!' 

'You can buy valerian root at Walmart. Just... I can't handle that song. If I weren't already dead, I'd be killing myself.' 

'It's not like I'm enjoying myself all that much, either.' 

Flopping back on the bed, Klaus lifted his hands to his face and groaned. He'd been out of rehab for five days, and so far he hadn't done more than bum half a cigarette from a guy at a bus stop. He'd taken two drags before the shake set in and Ben hauled him away. 

It was a record for him. He was going to do it this time, he was going to get truly clean. Pogo had said if he made it thirty days, he'd be welcomed back. Okay, maybe Pogo hadn't actually said it in so many terms, but the inference had been there. And yeah, Klaus didn't really want to go back to that damn reconstructed mansion, but it was a shit load warmer than the places he usually found himself, and winter was setting in. His birthday had just passed ( _all_ their birthdays had just passed). It would be a gift to himself. Sobriety, a warm bed and maybe some of Mom's stew. 

He just had to get through this first week. 

He tossed an arm over his eyes and took a breath. Sleep. Sleep was the first step. Some of his rehab friends had talked about having sleep for dinner. Well, Klaus could have sleep for injectables instead. 

Sleep. 

_Sleep_. 

His foot twitched under the blanket. His toes curled, his calf tensed. 

'That's when the taxi man turned on the radio- ' 

' _Klaus_!' 

'I can't help it!' 

The drugs didn't just block out the dead- they also blocked out the constant noise in his goddamn _mind_. The constant churning and turning, the way it needed constant stimulation. With a loud groan, Klaus ripped the pillow out from under his head and screamed into it. 

' _Please_ , can you at least wait until I'm asleep?' 

'You don't need sleep, you're a _ghost_.' 

Ben went quiet. He was sitting cross-legged on the bed, the heels of his hands pressing into his eyes. The mattress had sunk around him. Klaus had long since stopped wondering why certain objects seemed to react to the presence of ghosts and other things didn't. It wasn't worth the headache. 

'I have needs! More needs than you seem to care about.' 

'If you don't like my singing, you can leave.' 

With a dramatic groan that rivalled Klaus' own, Ben slumped against the wall. He could leave at any time. Klaus had long accepted that ghosts, despite being dead, had ghost business to attend to. Ben just happened to like coming back to annoy his ass. 

Rolling onto his side so he didn't need to acknowledge Ben any further, Klaus shut his eyes. He didn't need to sing along to the song in his head. He could just shut his eyes and force himself to sleep. 

He waited. 

He bit his tongue. 

He took a deep breath, held it, and gritted his teeth. 

'You can sing if you want,' Ben suddenly said, ever so quietly. His voice was a whisper in the night. 'I didn't mean to upset you. It's just... some songs give me a stomach ache.' 

_Stomach ache_. Code for, _it upsets the beast_. 

Klaus sighed, heavily and loudly. He resisted for a beat, before finally rolling onto his back and looking up at the ceiling. 

'I haven't had a day away from you for sixteen months.' 

' _Hey_ \- ' 

'No, no, hear me out,' Klaus said, holding up a hand. 'I get it, you're dead, I'm a beacon, I _get_ it. But we have spent more time together in the past sixteen months than in the whole, shit, eighteen fucking years you were alive.' 

'Nineteen.' 

'Whatever. It's tough, okay? I can't crack a leak without wondering if you're crouched outside the bathroom door.' 

'That was one time!' Ben cried out, indignant. 'And you were worried you'd taken bath salts!' 

'But I hadn't!' 

Ben made a noise of anguish. Klaus closed his eyes for a breath, and when he opened them Ben had appeared in the middle of the bedroom, standing with his hands cupping the back of his head. It didn't matter how many times he witnessed it, seeing ghosts appear in a different part of the room like that forever disorientated Klaus. 

Pushing up onto his elbows, he squinted at Ben from across the room. 

'I haven't had a moment alone. Not really. I can normally ignore the ghosts, do my own thing, but _you_ \- you're different.' 

'Why?' Ben asked, plaintive. 'Because you were there?' 

'Because you're my brother!' Klaus shot back, not wanting to remember where Ben had crossed the threshold into his ghostly form. 'I can't- I can't take a shit or a shower or, or, or jack off without thinking- ' 

'Jesus Christ, Klaus!' 

'I _can't_!' 

As Ben gave his final cry of frustration, a pair of bright blue tentacles shot out from under his shirt. Klaus had a moment to respond in surprise, before he found them wrapping around his ankles. He was dragged down several inches on the bed, his head hitting the edge of the pillow. Completely bewildered, his eyes ran from his ankles, up the length of the tentacles, to where Ben was standing, mouth agape. 

'I'm- ' 

'I'm hallucinating,' Klaus murmured to himself. 'It- it was the cigarette I had earlier.' 

'That was just tobacco, buddy.' 

'Nah, it was definitely laced.' 

Another tentacle shot out. This one wrapped around his wrist, pulling it from his face. As it was forced to the mattress, a fourth grabbed his other hand and pinned it to the wall. 

'Make him stop!' 

'I'm trying! He's all agitated.' 

'Why?' 

'It's the fucking Miley.' 

The tentacles shook, as though responding to the sheer name. For a hallucination, they felt incredibly real. Wide-eyed, Klaus lay there and watched them as they pulsed and twisted. It was difficult to tell, but he was sure he could see them glowing and shimmering in the dim light of the streetlamp. The blue seemed to glow and pulse. Underneath it, he could almost see the inky blackness, the catch of a deep purple. They were slicker than he had ever anticipated, and seemed to be oozing some kind of substance that didn't quite land on his skin. 

'He can tell you're upset,' Ben explained. 'He's- _Jesus_ , get _off_ \- ' 

Looking up, Klaus watched as Ben helplessly tugged at the base of one of the tentacles. No matter how hard he pulled, the beast refused to let go. If anything, he was beginning to grip tighter, his tentacles wrapping further around. 

'That's not helping.' 

'I know, I know, I'm sorry.' 

As Ben apologised, another tentacle came flying out from under his shirt. It landed on a splatter on Klaus' stomach. It was cold and smacked as it coiled around. The tip began to wiggle around his waist, slinking under to wrap him in a cool embrace. Shivering, Klaus unintentionally arched up, regretting his decision almost instantly. 

Klaus had never intended to remain a virgin so long. Being able to see the dead just happened to make things complicated. They only disappeared when he was high, and when he was high it was difficult to maintain an erection for any great length of time without completing losing his head. Most people tended to assume he'd long lost it, and in all fairness, there was every chance he very well could have. He certainly wouldn't remember. 

He just hoped he would have. He loved physical contact. He missed being able to snuggle up with someone (platonic or otherwise) and not feel like his dead brother was watching him. But getting his rocks off had fallen low on his priority list, and was somewhere between 'groom his pubes' and 'figure out how to pick his nose' in privacy levels. 

Maybe it was DMT. Maybe even GHB. By and large, Klaus tended to avoid the psychedelics. His real world was dangerous enough that he didn't need added trips to the mix. 

'Ben- ' 

'I'm trying!' 

The tentacle around his middle had begun to slip under the waistband of his shorts. With a gasp, Klaus shut his eyes. 

It was a little colder than he generally liked. The slickness of the tentacle was oddly familiar, but without any of the lingering residue of lube. Hissing, he arched his hips. The action allowed the beast to slip the tentacle in further, the tip twitching about until he had a hold of Klaus' cock. 

He was already hard. Fear boner. It happened. Nothing to stress about. 

But it _was_. He could feel the tentacle wrapping around it, the slight pressure from the suckers along his cock. This was strange and weird and quite very wrong, but the strangest thing Klaus had ever experienced down there was his left hand when he needed something unfamiliar to ol' righty. 

'I'm sorry- I'm sorry, I can't- ' Ben started to splutter, his cheeks bright red. 

'It's fine. It's fine!' Klaus laughed weakly. 'It's definitely not the weirdest thing I've had down there.' 

A lie. A big, bold faced lie. But Klaus couldn't have Ben worrying. 

The tentacle moved. It wasn't a smooth, slick stroke like the kind Klaus was used to, but there was a vague rhythm to it. Up and down, the suckers catching over the vein on the underside of his cock and the edge of his foreskin. Several smaller tendrils had slipped out and had joined the bigger ones. A couple were crawling under his boxers, while others were exploring his ribs, his collar bones, his hair. 

Breathing hard, Klaus shut his eyes. He knew a trip when he was experiencing one. And maybe this was a little more surreal than some, and a little more tactile than most, but he knew it was best to just ride it out. Hearing Ben moan (and apparently he could feel what the beast did) was definitely strange, but Klaus was loathe to stop any of it. 

There was a knocking at the corners of his mind, a whispered murmur that this was definitely the first time he'd been touched by anyone else. It wasn't a hallucination or a lucid dream. It was real, _this_ was real. 

He came embarrassingly fast. The suckers tightened around his cock, the tips of the tentacles froze their ministrations. With a whimper, Klaus grabbed at the bed sheets and shook. He could feel the humiliated blush on his cheeks, the way it spread down his chest as the tentacles withdrew and slurped back under Ben's shirt. 

The room was silent. Klaus tried to hold his breath to maintain it. 

'I, uh. Do you want a tissue?' Ben asked helplessly. 'I'll get you a tissue.' 

'Party in the USA?' Klaus weakly sang, his eyes shut tight. 

When he opened his eyes, Ben had disappeared from the room. 

He was high. He was definitely high. That had to be it. 


	5. OR: in which a post is mounted

It had been eight hundred and ninety-two days, thirteen hours, forty-three minutes and seventeen seconds since Five had projected himself into the future. 

He didn't mean to keep track. He actually wished he didn't. But he had a horribly accurate internal body clock. Time ran through him like blood and oxygen. It was a part of him, and he couldn't ignore it. 

Eight hundred and ninety-two days, thirteen hours, forty-three minutes and twenty-five seconds. 

The apocalypse had taken so much from him. His family, his home, his sense of purpose, his _future_. The future was a cold and abysmal place. And while he definitely missed the creature comforts of his past (hot water! warm beds! clean socks!), there were a bunch of other things he was surprised to find he missed. The smell of bread cooking when he passed by bakeries. The weight of a full tin of canned food. The sound of music drifting in from next door. 

He had found several portable generators over the first few months. It had taken some time for him to figure out how to power them. Gasoline wasn't exactly in high supply, but neither were batteries. He limited usage of it all at first to cook one hot meal a week. 

Then the first storm. 

Then he found a portable stereo, and sure, there were no radio signals, but he did have access to a lot of cassette tapes. On nights when the world was too still, he'd put one on and let the noise drift out over the landscape. 

Delores liked music. She liked the old timey jazz numbers (though, Five supposed, all music was old timey now). It was a bit hard to find full intact albums, but he did his best. 

'You look lovely tonight, Delores,' he said over the scratchy recording. 

The night was warm. Clouds still covered the sky, trapping the residual heat of the day. While it was stifling at times, he preferred it over the insufferable cold, where it seemed to seep in under every sweater, through the wool of his socks, the holes in his shoes. He never thought there would be a day where he'd prefer the heat to the cold, but here it was. 

'I like that colour on you. It goes with your eyes.' 

Delores smiled at him. Her dress a glittering purple. Five had found it in one of the few standing buildings. He had camped there for a few weeks during a terrible bout of snow and sleet. If it wasn't so isolated from the few places that still had food stocks, he'd have stayed. 

'I got you something. Here, see? It's a bit hard to find fresh flowers, but I hope this works for you.' 

It was a twisted garland of fake flowers. Five hadn't quite figured out the best way to entwine them altogether, and so he'd knotted ribbons around the wiry stems. It was a mess, but he'd done his best. 

Presenting it to her, he turned it over so she could see it from all angles. He'd identified some of the flowers from the faded labels in the craft store. Tiny yellow daisies, purple violets. The leaves were ivy. It was all plastic and other synthetic materials, but it would last a while if he kept it in good condition. 

Taking it, he set it atop her head. The wig she was wearing was a mahogany brown and was slightly tangled at the back. He'd tried to brush it out, but it had only made a bit of a rat's nest at the back. 

'Can I... would it be okay if I held your hand?' Five asked quietly. Then, after a pause, he rolled his eyes and gave a small scoff. 'I know, I know, the batteries won't last, but we can have some music for a little while, can't we?' 

There was no argument from Delores. Taking hold of her hand, Five stretched out on the mattress and sleeping bags he had set up. It wasn't the most comfortable, and a part of his mind still needled him about bugs and vermin even if most had been eradicated. But it kept him off the cold ground, and it was relatively soft. 

His thumb brushed over the back of Delores' own. It was different holding it now, despite how familiar it had become. He knew the smooth ridges of her knuckles, the dips between her fingers. A small spot had become weathered in her palm from where he had rubbed it nervously during the nights, when the wind would rush and squeal between cracks of damaged walls. The apocalypse may have come, but the world was never truly still. 

'I don't know what I'd do without you, Delores,' he said quietly. 'I'm not just trying to be sweet. You're... you're an angel. I _know_ , I _know_ , you don't need to tease me- ' 

Laughing, Five rolled onto his side to face her. The wig had fallen off a little, revealing her bare scalp underneath. Pushing up onto his elbow, he gingerly reached over and lifted the wreath up a little. 

'Here- do you mind if...?' 

Taking the wig by its hairline, he carefully slid it out from under her. Placing the wreath back atop her head, he tucked the hair into the cap and set it aside, off the mattress. As he settled back down, he let his hand hover a moment. Her dress was sparkling in the small fire that burned a few feet away. The sun was setting, and the sky was a warm yellow. 

'You really are beautiful,' he said, blushing a little. He hoped she couldn't tell. 'Can I kiss you?' 

He waited a moment. Counted back from five. Then, cautiously, he leant over and kissed her. 

A number of magazines had been saved from the apocalypse. Some stores, which seemed to be away from fires and damaging blast zones, had racks of lightly singed and sometimes partly melted magazines. He'd even found a warehouse in the old printing district that had reels and reels of magazines that had yet to be released. Five had devoured most of them. Even those that wouldn't have held his interest in the past (those with titles like _Cat Fancier_ and _AARP_ ) had been read cover to cover. 

In the warehouse had also been magazines for how to kiss. How to touch a girl (or boy! Five had also read the magazines intended for women). How to woo someone. Tips and tricks to make them wild. 

Maybe Delores wouldn't mind. They were, after all, the last people on the world, as far as either of them could tell. Maybe there were people still alive in Australia or Antarctica and Noumea, but Five wasn't in a position to find out. But, sole survivors or not, Five was determined to make this moment special for both of them. 

He undressed her slowly. Her arm popped off as he tried to slide the strap down. Apologising, he pushed it back in place and let it slide down her body. 

His own clothes were a little easier to remove. Pants that were a little too long in the leg and were held up with a rope instead of a belt. A shirt that he'd eventually grow into, if he could get atop the whole vitamin issue (was it safe to eat expired multivitamins?). Socks, with a hole at the toes and heels. 

'You can tell me to stop, if... we can slow down, if you need to.' 

She smiled at him. He held her arm, keeping it in position, and tilted his head to let it rest in her hand. Sometimes he sprayed her with old bottles of perfume that he found. It lingered now, something bright and like citrus. He craved oranges. _God_ , he missed orange juice. 

There was an internal mount, intended for a torso stand. Five had found a couple, and for a while he'd taken to hauling up on one so they were of a similar height. He'd since discarded them, though, in favour of keeping her in the wagon. Reaching down, he felt for it, the smooth plastic that he'd studied and measured when he'd been dressing her recently. 

Spitting into his hand, he found himself glancing about over the growing dim ruins. He could never shake the feeling of being watched. 

'I've got you,' he said softly when he turned back to her. 'I want this to be good for both of us.' 

Coating his cock with spit, he gingerly lined himself up. There was no easy way to go about this, no right angle for him to lay at. 

It was tight, too. He could feel the edges of the mount around his cock, a cool plastic feeling that might have been a little better with lube. That, though, was in about as short supply as sterilised bandages and antiseptic. Not much that he'd read about in magazines and a handful of biology textbooks were of much help here. 

He could try, though. 

A hand fell to one of her breasts. The other cupped the back of her head. Her arm stayed upright, wedged slightly under his armpit as he kissed her again. Breathing hard against her mouth, he rocked back and forth. There was no grace, no finesse, just an awkward back and forth as he tried to avoid catching the edges of the mount. 

'Are- are you- is this- _fuck_ \- ' 

The pressure was greater than he'd initially anticipated. Any time he'd done this before, it had been in private, away from Delores' eyes. It felt strange to be inside her, his face pressed to her shoulder as he found a stuttering rhythm. 

His nails dug into the back of her head, catching a little on the wreath that had partly slipped off. His other hand dragged up and held onto her shoulder. Her arm had popped out again, but it stayed tucked against his body, her wrist knocking against him. With a loud hiss, he held her close and came, a desperate cry spilling from him. 

For a breath he stayed there, a strange mixture of embarrassment, delirium and a definite undercurrent of aching loneliness washing over him. 

He pulled back, his semen making the exit smoother than it had been. He tried not to look down. Cleaning was going to be a bitch. 

Rolling onto his back, a hand on Delores' stomach, the other holding onto her detached arm, he looked up at the cloudy night sky. 

Next time he'd stick to rubbing against her. 


	6. OR: in which a lighthouse is ignored

There was a girl who haunted the corner of Sixth and King West. She stood on the footpath, leaning against a lamp post, dressed in a thick jacket and hood no matter the weather. The latter wasn't too surprising. It was cold, being a ghost, and no amount of layering would remove the chill. In his first few weeks of being the newest member of the not-quite-undead, Ben would sit and watch her. 

In time, he learnt several thing. 

Ben learnt that Klaus was a beacon to ghosts, a lighthouse in the distance. He wasn't the only one; some other people glowed in a similar way, a dim yellow in a sea of muted blues and greys. But Klaus shone like nothing else. He was a blinding white in the world. 

Ben learnt that he could still enjoy a cup of coffee or a morsel of mochi or a bite of a buttered croissant if he willed it hard enough. Reaching through the veil of life and death was exhausting, but it could be done if he focused. 

Ben learnt the beast had also died, but it had not been dampened. But the two of them, somehow, began a more peaceful coexistence. 

Ben learnt the ghost girl was very quiet. 

She didn't only stick to the lamp post. As Ben began to follow Klaus around the city, partly out of worry for his brother, but also out of his own meekness in his new form, he began to find her in other parts of town. He'd see her mindlessly kicking a tire of an old, beaten up '85 Toyota Corolla. She threw rocks at an apartment window, though they disintegrated into nothingness before they could take shape in the world of the living. 

Sometimes she could be found down at the beach. 

One afternoon (or morning, or evening, time could be hard to concentrate on), she turned and looked up at him with a squint and a scowl on her face. Ben skittered. 

Klaus was a pain in the ass to deal with when he was stoned. When Ben had been alive, it had been miserable. Dead, though, made it all the more unbearable. The light that filled Klaus spluttered and became a muddy yellow, not unlike all the other people out there who drifted between the world of the living and dead. 

Ben took to wandering. 

The footpaths of the city, the dirt trails in parks. 

Up hillsides, behind fences and tall buildings. 

Along the beach. 

He saw the girl. Paused. Waited for her to notice him. He waved. 

'My name's Ben. I'm new. What's your name?' 

She disappeared. 

And so it went. Ben tracked the days by Klaus' sleep/wake cycle, though he was certain it was inaccurate. The days, which he was sure was passing, began to become impossible to count. Perhaps if he had a calendar, it would be easier to follow. There was no real compulsion to find one, though, and he doubted Klaus would be able to help him keep track of it while he was binging on his latest stash. 

He found her again outside a cafe. Klaus had stumbled inside, following Ben's suggestion of a chocolate croissant. She was sitting at a table. Her dark eyes followed Ben as he paced, his hands deep in his pockets. Her hood was off, and a mess of black, twisted curls fell across her shoulders. A large freckle sat under her left eye, a peppering of small freckles dancing across her right cheek. 

She stared at him. Her foot swayed back and forth from where she'd crossed her legs. 

She waved him over. Gestured for him to lean in. 

'Margaux,' she said. Her voice was half a whisper, half a rasp. 'My name is Margaux.' 

She disappeared. 

And maybe that would be that. Ghosts, Ben had discovered, were a lot like the living. Some were more communicative than others. They had their preferences, their likes and dislikes. Many, like Ben, kept to themselves, but that seemed to have more to do with realising they were dead and all that meant than anything else. 

But he found himself being watched, just as much as he watched her. As the world went on around them, _without_ them. 

He got to knew her. 

Her name was Margaux. She had lived in this city once. She had worked as a dental hygienist. She pointed things out as they went. 

She talked little. 

She showed him, only once. She had unzipped her jacket and pulled the hood back, revealing her old uniform. Her throat had been slit. Ben didn't ask about the man stalked, the window she threw rocks at, the way she left minor inconveniences for him in the way ghosts were wont to do. 

They walked on the beach. It might have been a romantic ideal once, and Ben found it nice to do. He wore his boots, she wore a pair of Vans that were white and speckled with red. 

'How old were you?' he asked. 'When you died? I was eighteen. I died... last year. I think.' 

Margaux paused. She pursed her lips and her brows furrowed a little. She could speak a little, but her voice was husky and thin. She'd never said it hurt, but Ben had a feeling it did. 

She crouched down. Ben followed. In the sand, she wrote _19_. Then, after a pause, she added on _98_. 

_1998_. A good ten years before him. 

There wasn't much to go on. Relationships with other ghosts were difficult to build, particularly when time was more a suggestion that a strict rule. Sometimes Ben would see a group of ghostly spectres passing by, and they seemed to be families who had found one another. It seemed as though if a group had died together, they tended to stick around for a while, though they eventually parted ways. 

He kept bumping into Margaux. Not literally. They were incorporeal. If they stood too close, it was as though electricity filled the air. But he'd find her, when Klaus was stoned and off his face and couldn't talk to him. She'd be lurking on street corners or pacing along the beach. 

Ben didn't expect anything to happen. He didn't let the idea sit within him. Being dead hadn't killed his dreams as much as being Reginald's adopted son-cum-experiment had. 

But he let it happen. 

They were at the beach. The sun was setting- or maybe it was rising. The sky was a pinky-purple, and some stars were out. Everything grew a little muddy when he tried to think about time. The one consistent was Klaus, and his light was distant and faded as he let himself roll through whatever high he was experiencing. Ben would clean him up later. 

Their hands didn't quite touch. Their fingers passed through each others hands. It felt like he was standing too close to a TV that had just been switched off. There was a hiss and sizzle, not unlike electricity. It wasn't unpleasant. 

She didn't try to kiss him. Although he was a little disappointed, he didn't push the issue. 

The sand was soft beneath them. They knelt in front of one another, shedding their clothing like skin. Jackets and shoes, his beanie, the claw-like clip she used to keep her hair up. She let him see the gash across her throat. He let her see the beast. Their underwear and socks stayed on. 

'Can I touch?' she asked, her voice thin and wavering. 

Ben nodded, and asked the same. Margaux paused, assessing him with a squint. She nodded once and scooted a little closer. 

Her fingers danced over the extradimensional hole where his stomach was meant to be. He ran his fingers along the swollen tissue around the gash in her throat. She shivered when his fingers went too deep and crossed into her. 

The beast within him twitched as it was poked. Ben could feel him shiver and hiss. His tentacles emerged, one by one, and waved between them as it searched for the offending party. He tried to grab at Margaux's wrist, but his tentacles slipped through her as though she were made of air. 

Maybe she was. Maybe they all were. 

Ben had always wondered what it would be like, to touch another person privately and intimately. He and his siblings had grown up in a cold and solitary world. It wasn't unlike being dead (though being dead did suck in a different, though not completely peculiar, way). 

The way he and Margaux touched now was perhaps a little like it. They were revealing parts of themselves that had been hidden for so long. His fingers ran under her bra strap, across her waist, over her knee, and although he never really touched her, her eyes fluttered shut and she visibly exhaled. 

It was like scratching an itch in a hard to reach place. It wasn't exactly right and Ben doubted it would compare if he'd experienced this while alive, but it was close. It soothed that churning loss that had existed within him for so long. 

He did his best to kiss her shoulder, the side of her neck, her collar bone. She attempted to tug at his hair and to paw at the beast's curious tentacle. 

And there were ghosts. There were always ghosts. Ben had finally learnt what Klaus meant when he said he was never truly alone, because even if the ghosts didn't initiate contact, they were always there. Curious and hungry for some stimulation beyond the freezing veil they all stood behind. 

It was hard to tell if he got off. Everything was so muted, now that he was dead. There was a burst of _something_ , though. Some enormous relief, like a weight off his shoulders. A breath of warmth, in a world that had been cold for so long. 

Their hands fell atop each other. The beast's tentacles had slid back inside. 

'My brother's been talking about heading west,' he said. 

'My grandmother's sick. She's south.' 

Ben nodded. 

Margaux began to dress in silence, and he followed her lead. 

As she pulled her jacket back on, the hood sitting atop her head, she smiled at him. It didn't quite reach her eyes, but it was the closest he'd seen to a real smile from her. 

And then she was gone. 

Zipping his jacket shut, Ben took his beanie and looked out to where he could see Klaus' light. With a deep sigh, he stood. Closing his eyes, he let himself get pulled towards him. 


	7. OR: in which the timing is off

Craig had been two years ahead of Vanya when she'd gone to college. He was a clarinetist (minored in oboe and bassoon), and their paths didn't cross very much. They had both performed in the theatre band as part of their required courses. It wasn't until Vanya had tried her hand at the jazz band for a couple of semesters (and realised it wasn't for her) that they began to get to know one another. 

He was the type of guy most of the girls swooned over. Sure, he didn't have that roguish charm that was all the rage in movies, and he could probably spend more time at the gym, but he was sweet. His grades were good without being intimidating. He could throw a basketball and get it in the ring more often than not. 

Beyond music, they only had one other thing in common. Like Vanya, he had been homeschooled. Unlike her, he'd been enrolled in a mainstream school up until he was nine, when his focus on music became paramount. It was a bonding topic. 

Girls were jealous of their friendship. And it was _delightful_. 

He had a girlfriend, but Vanya wasn't bothered by that. She was just glad to have a friend, first and foremost, but also to have something that made others stew. 

They parted ways after college. She went back to her hometown, following some half-cooked dream of her father finally seeing her as more than ordinary. Maybe she didn't have powers, but she had graduated from college, which was a lot more than any of her other siblings could say. And though Pogo and Grace alike congratulated her and gave her some of the attention she longed for, her father, as always, remained stoic and cold. 

She found an apartment. She auditioned for several groups, and finally secured a spot in a local string quartet, as well as a contract position for a local school. It wasn't steady work, but jobs as a section violinist were difficult to come by. She supplemented her income with lessons, and even picked up a part-time job at a music store. 

Time passed. She found herself developing a new routine. Her friendships were tenuous, her attempts at dating aborted. Allison called, albeit rarely, and Klaus stopped by once and she found her wallet gone when he left. 

She bought a typewriter and began to write. 

And, one afternoon after she started home after an audition at the local orchestra, she bumped into Craig. Literally, painfully, the kind of bump that sent coffee down her front and would have burned her if it weren't for her oversized jacket. 

'Oh- oh, _shit_ , I'm- Vanya, _hi_!' 

And, like that, Vanya found herself being pulled back into a friendship. It had been well over a year, but there wasn't any kind of teething period. He bought her a coffee, apologised for the spill, and offered to pay to have it laundered. Vanya said no, but when she looked in her handbag later, she found ten dollars hidden as a bookmark in her latest murder mystery. 

He was in town for a gig. He could get her in for free, if she wanted, and she could meet the band. Vanya laughed, but he insisted. 

There was a gold band around his ring finger on his left hand. She wondered if he was engaged or had actually married. Maybe it was a promise ring. 

'A year in July,' he said proudly the following evening once he'd coerced her backstage after the show. 'The baby's due in September.' 

Vanya's eyes widened as she quickly counted back. It was April. She sat and watched him dismantle his clarinet, his fingers making light work. She was perched atop the back of a chair, balancing precariously as she sipped the beer she'd been handed by one of the roadies. She didn't even know jazz bands had roadies. The best she got was the cellist's nephew carrying their sheet music in a milk crate. 

'Did she come?' Vanya asked. 

His wife was the same girl he'd been dating throughout college. They'd met at some church event for homeschooled kids. Vanya had met her only twice. 

'Nah. The big city scares her.' 

Vanya laughed and nodded, as though she understood. 

Maybe she should have seen it coming. Whenever the topic of his wife came up, Craig quickly changed the subject. There was a nervous twitch in his expression whenever the conversation started to move towards his wedding, his marriage, his baby. His fingers drummed over the table at the restaurant they went to, his gaze lingering on other couples, other women, before he quickly looked away and asked Vanya something different. 

Her gaze followed his own, and he wondered what it was he was looking for; whether it was the wave in their hair, or the freckles on their nose. She wondered how they compared to his wife, how they compared to _her_. She wondered why she cared so much. 

By the third glass of whisky, his tongue had loosened enough. 

'I think I should have dated around a little,' he admitted, the regret clear on his face. 'I love her, and I don't regret... I don't regret marrying her. But... what I miss?' 

'I don't... I don't know,' Vanya said with an apologetic shrug. 

She walked him back to his hotel, and ignored the weight of him against her shoulder, his hand on her waist. He was drunk, she was lonely, she was frustrated. 

If she'd been half a better person, she might have said something. And try as she had to deny it over the years, Diego was right: she was no better than the rest of her siblings. She could be selfish and thoughtless and she'd never been all that good at thinking things through. 

The caught up each day he was in town. He stopped by the studio to listen to her and the quartet rehearse. She watched his band play twice more. 

'Are you happy?' Craig asked after his last show in town. 

Vanya took her time. As she finished her beer, she felt his eyes on her. He didn't look at her like he did the other women, those with no attachments or ties to him. In a way, she wished he did. Not because she would have any idea of what to do with it, but because maybe, possibly, hopefully, a part of her would waken up. 

They went back to her place. They were both far more sober than his first night in town. 

Kissing him was a lot like kissing one of her brothers. Vanya tried not to focus too much on that as she pushed Craig to her bedroom, but the thought was impossible to shake. He was as broad as Luther, as tall as Klaus, with a haircut like Diego's. He might have been able to pass for Five with a dye job. His personality was a little like Ben's. 

Someone down the hall was playing the new Rihanna song. Allison had told her that it had been offered to her, but her agent had turned it down before she'd had a chance to even hear it. Vanya wasn't sure if she believed her. 

She poured them both a couple of fingers of whisky. Vanya nursed hers, while Craig downed his in a single mouthful. 

Kissing was either with an infusion of booze. She could focus less on how familiar he was, and more that maybe, just maybe, she could be desirable. None of this was how she pictured her first time would go, but Vanya knew that ship had sailed a good few years ago. She was in her twenties. People would think certain things. 

The Rihanna song had transitioned to one of Allison's. Vanya recognised the tune from an album she had released when they were teens. _Strawberries and Cream_ or _Peaches and Cream_ , one of those songs. As Vanya fell backwards on her small mattress, Craig atop her, she frowned and tried to block it out. Craig's mouth was on her neck, her arms were around his shoulders, and she didn't need Allison in her mind. 

The burn of his five o'clock shadow was irritating. There was too much tongue, too much... _gum_. Vanya didn't know how to describe it. There was a momentary pause as he hauled his shirt off and tugged at her own, but then his mouth was back. Vanya didn't think it was the whisky. There hadn't been enough consumed to leave them more with a buzz to make an excuse over. 

He kissed like he imagined Luther might. Or maybe even Klaus, when he was off the wagon. Vanya didn't have a whole load of experience, so maybe it was always this messy. How had Diego once described it? Like doing battle with an oyster. It had been a gross image then, and it was a gross image now. 

She nudged him down, her eyes on the ceiling. Allison's song was still playing. She could remember the dance steps to the music video. She and Allison would push the furniture up against the wall and practice together during their afternoon break. Allison had had a natural rhythm and groove, but Vanya had a certain musicality. Ben would sit next to the tape deck and cheer them on. 

'Hey- hey do you wanna...' 

'Huh?' Craig looked up as she nudged him down. 'Oh. Oh, yeah.' 

She'd been trying to ask if he wanted to fight an oyster elsewhere. Vanya had read enough magazines to have an idea that oral was meant to be good. 

Instead, he went about pulling his jeans off. Vanya watched him, then, holding back a sigh, she followed. Fine. Next time. 

Closing her eyes, she kicked her jeans off and let them fall over the edge of the bed. His hands were on her, her nails down his back. Maybe she ought to be grateful. He was her friend, he wasn't going to be in town for long. Maybe she could even call Allison and talk to her about it later. They weren't friends, but they were still friend _ly_. She'd even encouraged Vanya when she mentioned she was writing a book, and sure, Vanya hadn't told her what it was about, but it was nice to have that added motivation. 

Craig was fumbling. Vanya's fingers danced along his back, playing one of the concertos from the string quartet. 

'Is it- is it in yet?' she deigned to ask. 

He apparently didn't hear. He also, apparently, wasn't, as a moment later there was something thick and blunt pressing inside of her. Holding back a noise of surprise, Vanya took a sharp breath in through her nose and tried to focus on what she'd read in magazines. 

The heat of it. Yup, there was heat. And she'd read something about a rhythm. Either jazz flowed in Craig's veins and he was following 9/8 time, or he had no rhythm at all. The magazines had said she needed to voice her desires, but all Vanya could think of was how the other violinist in the quartet had the most beautiful vibrato, and Vanya had spent an inordinate amount of time watching her fingers. 

And her _hair_. It was long and red, and sometimes when they walked back to the bus, Vanya would watch it flow down her back. She always tried to tie it up in a ponytail, but it was wild and curly and always ready to burst from the elastic. 

And Allison's song had finally given way to something new, but it was a duet she had done with some electronic DJ, and that was somehow worse. With a frustrated groan, Vanya grabbed the back of Craig's head and hooked her ankles around his hips and tried to get him to follow the beat of the song. 

No dice. 

Fine. _Fine_. This was just... fine. 

Staring at the ceiling, Vanya resisted the urge to roll her eyes and frown. It wasn't awful. There was a bit too much pressure on her hip, and Craig kept trying to rest his chin on her temple (and that was beginning to give her a headache). Outside, a late spring storm had erupted, the music next door had cut out with a thrash of lightning. Maybe her neighbour didn't have any power surge sockets. 

There was a grunt from Craig. His awkward rhythm had stopped. 

Vanya let go and turned her eyes to him. Very slowly, she slid her head to the left so he couldn't lean against it. 

'You done?' 

He nodded. 

Somehow, she disentangled herself from him and pulled away. He landed on the mattress, sweaty and looking more like a beached porpoise than she'd ever seen. His wedding ring was catching the overhead lamp. Coughing to avoid gagging, Vanya wiggled off the bed. Grabbing a bathrobe from her wash basket, she pulled it on. 

Heading into the kitchen, she grabbed the mostly empty bottle of whisky. The cap was off. Without thinking, she raised it to her lips and finished it off. It burned all the way down. 

Not bad. 

The sex was fine, too. 


	8. OR: in which a mail order friend arrives

Allison and Ben had both been fascinated by the concept of catalogue ordering when they were teenagers. They would rush to the mail whenever it was delivered, and paw through the bills, coupons and fanmail to grab their most prized possessions: the catalogues. In those glossy magazines, they would go through and circle what they wanted the most, before searching through the piggy banks and lock boxes, before filling in the order forms and asking Grace to write a cheque as they dumped their notes and coins on the table. 

After they left (whether by their own volition or not), the catalogues still arrived. Grace would take them and add them to a pile, where they were later tied with a ribbon and left in storage. _Just in case_ , she'd say with a smile, even if she knew it wasn't true. 

Grace had never wanted for anything. Reginald had been careful with her programming, and had given her just enough human traits to pass if required, but not enough to allow her to have that enviable human ability of free will. It had likely been an accident, when he and Pogo had tampered with her programming (and when Pogo had repaired her), that certain aspects had woken up. And though she didn't found herself _wanting_ anything new, she did find herself hungering for new input. 

She had become curious. She was hungry to learn. 

Despite it being some years since the children had lived under her roof, the catalogues still arrived. Grace pawed through them, trying to follow Allison and Ben's lead. 

She had always loved movies, especially the classic kind. The types that were still in black-and-white, or at the early stages of Technicolor. As she searched through the catalogues, she searched for things that reminded her of those relics. Lipsticks in bright red, pins to set her hair, scarves and skirts that were similar to what Mister Hargreeves had dressed her in, but different enough that it was new. She ordered books and music, things that had previously been forbidden to her, but with him gone she was free to explore. 

There was more she wanted to try, though. 

People that weren't her immediate family were still a little scary to her. Diego would visit, Vanya would occasionally stop by, Allison would call. And as much as Grace hungered and longed for company, she couldn't bring herself to quite yet step outside the front door and make that first attempt. 

But how glorious it would be to _try_. 

So she continued with her catalogues. Biting at her thumb, she circled items, calculated the total, and very nervously wrote the order down. She slipped the cheque into the envelope, sealed it, wrote the address, and passed it to Diego to mail when he was next over. 

And she waited. 

The box she received was packed with new pillowcases and matching sheets. She received an array of interesting nail polishes that she spent a good chunk of time painting her toes with. A contraption for cooking eggs in different shapes, quaint cookie moulds and a rice cooker. 

And, at the bottom, was a simple black box. 

Locking herself in her bedroom (something Diego had insisted upon she have, since her children had so wonderful adverted the apocalypse as she had expected them to do), Grace set it on the bed. She pulled up a chair, smoothed her skirt underneath herself, and sat down opposite it. With her hands clasped, she studied the box and pursed her lips together. 

Really, there was no need for all of... _this_. She had no great urge like _that_ , no real desire that she had to act upon. This was all a perverse curiousity. Something she could so simply ignore if she so chose to. 

She'd have asked her children about it, but that felt like it was crossing a line. 

With a breath she didn't even need to take, Grace leant over and picked up the box. The weight was different to what she expected it to be. It was equally heavier but also lighter. Sitting it on her lap, she ran her thumb along the stickers that kept it closed on all ends and peeled the lid off. 

The catalogue had advertised it as a _personal massager_ , but Grace knew what that was code for. It was the kind of toy she hadn't wanted her children playing with. 

The handle was a simple white and accented with chrome. The top was a soft pink, which almost complimented her general attire. It was so small and discreet, that she felt she could almost sew a little bag for it and carry it around in her purse- if she ever went anywhere that required a purse. 

It ran on batteries, and the box had three packaged inside. Picking them out, she opened the end of the handle and slipped them all in. One, two, three. 

Setting the box down beside her, Grace looked it over. Holding it in both hands, she squeezed her knees together. Things like this never happened in her favourite films. 

What would Rita Hayworth do? What would Audrey Hepburn do? What would her namesake, Grace Kelly do? 

An introduction. Yes, that was a start. 

'My name is Grace,' she said politely. 'What's yours?' 

Right. Not many androids were as advanced as her. 

'I'm going to call you... Steve. Is that alright?' 

Well, _Steve_ wasn't in a position to argue. 

There was a small button on the handle. The catalogue had advertised that it ran on three speeds. Apparently there were more advanced massagers, but the mere idea of buying one of _those_ made her flush. 

Holding the rounded top in her other hand, Grace pressed the button. As it lit up in a bright blue, the top began to hum. It buzzed in her hand, and she let out a small noise of surprise and almost dropped it. Startled, she watched as the top rubbed against her hand. It was... pleasant. Pleasant in the same way that sinking her hand into a tub of rice or standing under a warm shower after she'd gotten covered in muck after a training sensation with the children was nice. 

This type of massager really wasn't intended for hands, though. And though Grace was human-like, there were certain parts she lacked. Still, curiousity called for experimentation, and Reginald _had_ programmed her with the ability to test hypotheses. 

Turning it off, she set the massager on the bed and stood. With a quick glance at the door to ensure the lock was still in place, she began to undress. Her top was unbuttoned and gently placed over the back of her chair. Her skirt was unzipped and carefully folded over a hanger, which was hooked over the door handle. She stepped out of her heels, unhooked her stockings and rolled them down. After a momentary hesitation, she unlatched her bra and slipped off her panties. 

Taking the massager from the chair, she lay back on the bed. She smoothed her hair down, rest a hand on her stomach, and looked up at the ceiling. Without looking, she pressed the button to turn it back on the lowest setting and heard it spring to life. 

She started at her lips. Grace had heard that it was pleasant to be kissed. The massager tickled, just enough to make her laugh. Down she went, across the front of her throat and over her collar bones. She lingered there, humming as a warmth spread over her. 

The sensation of the massager over her breasts was curious. She couldn't recall a time she had been touched there, and for a moment she let the massager linger. She increased the speed, pressed down further, and a small noise spilled from her without her meaning to. It was _nice_. Perhaps not that mind-blowing sensation she read about in her lurid novels, but it was definitely _nice_ in a way she'd never experienced before. 

What was even nicer was pressing it between her breasts. Her novels had never described sternum stimulation, but many of her internal components were house there. It was a private spot, and delicate to touch. When she pressed down, she could feel her system come to life. It was alerting her, trying to grab her attention to a possible danger, but Grace ignored it all and ran the massager back and forth. 

She let it skim over her waist and navel, over her hips and the tops of her thighs. Biting her lower lip, she curiously let it drift between her legs. Her novels had promised her something wonderful, but she had no vulva to speak of, no clitoris or vagina. She was smooth and round, and as disappointing as that was, Grace wasn't about to let it tamper with her exploration. There would be something that set her off. 

And there it was. Behind her knee, if she held the top of the massager against it, she felt a spark. It was warm, deep, and made her gasp as her back arched. Her hips lifted off the bed as she drew her knee in to press the massager in deeper. With a whimper, she felt a shiver run through her, starting at her head and working its way down to her feet. 

'Oh, _Steve_ ,' she moaned, because the people in movies often did in times such as this. 'Oh, that's _lovely_.' 

Lowering her leg, her feet rubbing over the bed, she rolled onto her side. Curling her toes, she drew her knees to her chest and let the massager rub behind her knee. Her teeth worried her lower lip, her eyes were tightly shut. Fumbling with the button, she turned it up to the highest setting. Back and forth she circled it, trying her left knee and then the right. The left was better, but both were pleasant in different ways. 

Drawing her knees up a little higher, Grace let it drop a little. Over her calves, feeling the tension release a little. She was always balanced so precariously on her toes all day. Her high heels were part of her uniform, but it _did_ leave her a little sore. Curious, and just a little cautious, she drew the massager down further. 

And- and _there_. As good as behind her knee. 

Grace pressed the massager to the arch of her foot. She cried out, her spine curling as she leant in. Oh, _oh_ , that was wonderful. Mouth agape and body shivering, she whined and twisted around herself as she felt a rush roll over her. 

Shooting a hand down, she grasped the back of her knee as she dragged the massager over the sole of her foot. It was buzzing, humming, over and over as she dug her fingers into the back of her knee. She worked small circles with the massager and her fingers, her teeth biting into her kneecap as she tried to stifle her moans. 

Grace had no frame of reference for an orgasm within an android. All her favourite authors described it in similar ways. A burst, a rush, a sweetness that enveloped the entire body. It all sounded lovely and wonderful, and she would sigh and fantasise. 

What Grace experienced was a momentary shutdown. The massager fell from her hand, her temperature spiked, and her body whirred to a stop. 

When she rebooted, the massager was vibrating between her ankles. Startled, she sat up, shook her head, and switched it off. 

'Thank you, Steve,' she said politely, as she held it in her hands. 'Would you like to come with me while I clean up?' 

With a small laugh, Grace swung her legs over the side of her bed and began collecting her clothes. Perhaps when she finally ventured out of the house, she'd find some suitable material to make Steve a small bag, so she could carry him with her. 


End file.
